Burned
by Keshka
Summary: Trent can't sleep. It's Rachel's fault. Introspection occurs.


Disclaimer: I don't own them, unfortunately. More's the pity…

Spoiler alert: If you haven't read ODL, you shouldn't be here!

Burned 

Liquid, smoky green against a sheet of hair like flame. Small, nimble, deadly hands moving over him. An exchange of breath, the hot, damp press of lips to his own, need surging in his blood. A hungry, creeping want racing through him like lightening, quickening his skin, goosebumps, heat under his fingernails, animal lust. Glancing up, up, green eyes like the forest meeting his own, smoldering, changing, shifting, turning red, red. Pupils elongating, cutting the background like glass, slitting terribly, goat-like, lush lips twisting in a feral smile, fingers turning to claws, dragging him down, down, DOWN-

Trent wasn't sure how he got from his bed to the floor between waking and sleeping, but that's where he found himself, panting, heart racing with panic and fear. God. All his money and all the sleeping pills in the world couldn't seem to circumvent the body's natural need for REM sleep. How unfortunate that his bodies natural needs were driving his mind slowly crazy.

A thousand suitable women in the world, elf, vampire or human and his dreaming self could not seem to get past a certain witch. Goddamn Morgan and her pervasive, harrowing sense of ETHICS, her pathetic wardrobe and her sarcastic mouth. A very pretty, spiteful, CHILDISH mouth it was too.

Trent sat up cross-legged and frowned at the walls, streaked silver with moonlight. Dreams, nightmares, every area between, Rachel Morgan somehow seemed to touch them all in his life and that was speaking literally and figuratively. Ignoring the problem in the light of day only seemed to encourage his unconscious to figure it out on its own and frankly it was pissing him off.

Lust, he could handle. Had handled, often and quite capably. He was an elf, not a saint. Ellasbeth's accusation notwithstanding, Trent hardly needed to avail himself to any of the local escorts if he so desired a companion for an evening. He was not only aware of his looks, he cultivated them in the case of his business and ignored them otherwise. Looks and money predictably rounded up so many suitable bed partners of both sexes and all species he should perhaps start a queue.

And yet his biggest problem lately didn't seem to be avoiding these types of dalliances, but was instead avoiding thoughts of those dalliances with one particular person. One particular witch. Demon. Demon-witch.

The Turn take Rachel Morgan anyway.

With a grunt, Trent forced himself up, moving briskly to shake off drowsiness. That was quite enough of those dreams for now, thank you. It was still early by elf standards. The household was silent as he padded his way to the gardens, feeling the pull of the active ley line in his office. It was comforting in its own way and panic-inducing in another. He needed to get over his new aversion to line magic since his visit to the ever-after. It was putting a strain on his working relationship with Quen and if there was one thing Trent had always prided himself on it was putting business before his own concerns. Before anything. Until the witch came along. Blast her.

Ethical concerns had never been high on his list of needs before Morgan stepped into his life. Hell, they still weren't, and given a cost-benefit analysis of any situation he'd almost always still go with the easy way if it meant it was easier for HIM. Almost. Always. Trent felt like pulling out his hair and wrathfully hoped that if ever she thought of him in HER early hours of the morning, she felt the same level of frustration. Frustration of a similar kind too, he rather thought, ignoring his stirring body, still keyed up from a night of dreams and unfulfilled imaginings. Maybe he should just be done with it, have the witch then hit her with a forgetful charm. Only he wasn't sure how to make her sit still long enough to either lock her in his trunk or hit her with the charm, and Quen, damn his honor, was probably the last person to ask for help anymore with regards to Rachel Mariana Morgan. Too sucked into her sense of morality since her efforts for the correct sample of elfish DNA had potentially saved the next generation of their species. A true smile spread over his lips and he considered that, relaxing at last into the light, crisp breeze as the night played out in the soft sound of insects. Whatever else had happened, he could be grateful that at long last, his quest, at least, was beginning to see fortuitous times.

Unlike him, he thought shuddering, feeling the smut on his aura like ink darkening the edges of his soul. God. Deal with demons and you get burned. Not only was he tainted with their evil but he also bore the mark of one of them. It was a small price to pay, he of all people knew that, and yet, to become everything he feared, to be so owned by someone... it was revolting. And necessary. He took a breath and let it out slowly, reminding himself. Necessary. And he would do it again, if it meant the survival of his people. He would do anything.

A thought occurred to him and he scowled. She knew that now too, drat her; she was aware the depths he'd sink to capture his goals. He couldn't seem to escape her. She seemed to know all the parts of him he didn't want seen; standing in the same room with her left him feeling naked and shaken. Being near her meant being KNOWN, all the bad parts along with the good. More bad than good, according to her. He took a breath and let it out slowly, unwilling to admit how much that bothered him.

She could hardly throw stones though; if he was in deep, she was already six feet under. Student to a demon. He could hardly fathom it; the thought sickened him to the depths of his core. Doubtless she, like him, had her own list of the necessary excuses for her share of smut and her marks owed, but he thought she was fooling herself if she expected any kind of life expectancy practicing demonology. Of all things, in this, he thought bitterly, he was now an expert, another part of his life she was privy to that she shouldn't be.

He'd have to see her soon. Morgan. Have to settle this ugliness between them, curb this... interest of his. What she did terrified him, what she was disgusted him, but his body craved her in a way he couldn't tame and his mind acknowledged their similarities. They were both passionate people though he hid it better; they might have made amazing partners if they'd been born to similar instead of dissimilar ideals. As it was, they usually balanced somewhere between adversaries and quasi-business partners. He needed something more certain, now, when everything was changing around him, in him. The uncertainty was going to kill him or drive him to regretful actions soon. Maybe if he saw her in person again he could just wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze. Well, he'd tried that. Maybe less squeezing. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth at his own body's stupidity, shivering at even the thought. Didn't it have more self-preservation than this? How lucky the mind ruled and not the body. For the most part, anyway.

Morgan. Soon. Kiss her or kill her, love her or hate her, everyone seemed to have an opinion and he had to figure out what his was, now that he'd seen to those depths of her. Now that she's seen to those depths of him.

Soon.

Note: Quick character piece, had to get it out of my head after reading ODL. Be forgiving by-the-by, I haven't edited this, just something quick to take the edge off the many plot bunnies scurrying through my brain…


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